defunct on a bed, and the following conversation passed between them.
“Thirty years have we carried hither his pensioner’s share of the crop, and at last we ourselves are free to enjoy the pensioner’s portion,” said Loyka’s wife.
“We have wronged him grievously,” said Loyka, the hospodar, and clasped his hands.
“We him! he us much more! It is pretty late in the day to call black white now that he is dead, when it was allowed to be black during all his lifetime.”
“He hath his dismissal; who knows what awaits us.”
“A pleasing spectacle, truly to see you begin now to condemn what you approved for thirty years. We lay down a burden with him in the tomb; do not prevaricate, you know it as well as I do.”
“I would far sooner that I did not know it.”
“Oh! you men, you men! ye fear not the living, and as soon as their eyes are closed in death you grow timorous. Why should not I feel light-hearted to-day? I never feared him while he was alive. I tell him even now that he is dead—I feel the lighter for his loss. I should like to know the farm where they would not breathe free again when the pensioner on their bounty was taken from them, and such a one too.”
“He was my father.”
